


Animal Magnetism

by FrostEgg



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Reader-Insert, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 00:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12876582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostEgg/pseuds/FrostEgg
Summary: You didn't get to talk to rock stars often, and while this rock star was still on the brink of hitting it big, he had a special proficiency at getting you going. The way he played his instrument was overtly sexual, just like everything else he did. Neither the rumors that the drummer was possessed nor the fact that that front man had no eyes were interesting enough tear your attention away from him for long. And now he was here, and he was close, and he was flirting with you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For my friend Crow, who requested Murdoc saving a groupie from another concert-goer, and then getting a little thank you from the starstruck fan. Takes place before Phase 1, so the band is less famous and Murdoc isn't green yet.

Gorillaz was a good band. A great band. A level of excellent uncharacteristic of a dive this shitty. Honestly, the place skeeved you out, but you’d made it a point to go to every show they did. Rumor had it they were working on an album, and there'd been a rash of celebrity sightings around their decrepit hilltop studio. It was clear they were going places fast, but, somehow, they still found time to play at places like this. For the life of you, you couldn't figure out why. This bar was poorly lit, low ceilings, too small to draw any sort of real crowd. You considered that they might be practicing, maybe training the young guitarist, but you were never allowed a moment to collect your thoughts in a place like this. 

You felt a hand on your shoulder, unfamiliar and uninvited. “Hey, doll, what’re you doing sitting alone like that?” And immediately, you began to regret coming here. 

The hand refused to be swatted away, and you looked over to its owner, hideous and drunken. “I’m not interested,” you said, fear growing at just the sight of him. 

“Naw, of course you are. C’mon now, at least be friendly.” The man leaned closer, and you leaned further away. He was alone, at least. But so were you. You gripped your glass in a fist, and you could feel his drunken breath on your skin. This was a terrible place. Your mind raced in search of a solution--

His body jerked away from you violently, and before you knew it, the bastard and his barstool were both clattering onto the filthy club floor. Suddenly, thankfully, his attention had been drawn away from you, where it had been burning you with the fear and discomfort. Instead, he was scrambling drunkenly to his feet to meet his assailant face to face. You followed his glare to the scowling figure who had brought his sorry ass toppling to the ground, and had to keep yourself from gasping out loud. 

"What're you playing at? you fucking bastard!" The useless drunkard yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at your hero: a figure in a dark shirt, inverted cross dangling low on his neck. A figure you'd been following from bar to bar over the last couple of months like a lost puppy. The band's bassist, Murdoc, had come to your rescue. Not tall, but proud. Undoubtedly talented and ruthlessly charismatic.

"Hands to yourself, kid," Murdoc spat, lips curling into a snarl to reveal a set of pointed and off-color teeth. Jagged and animalistic. With an air of disdain, he swatted the man's outstretched hand away from his chest, exuding an otherworldly confidence. "You heard the lady, didn't you? She wouldn't touch you with a barge pole and a hazmat suit. But who would, really?" 

It took a moment for the man to process Murdoc's insult, eyes glazed over for a second before he roared in drunken anger and reared back a punch, clumsy and easy to predict. Murdoc slid to one side, allowing the drunken idiot to crash once again onto the floor. In one swift and rehearsed movement, Murdoc had unslung his guitar from where it was strapped over his shoulder. Like this kind of thing happened all the time. "You're not worth her time, and you're certainly not worth mine either," he said, holding his bass by the neck with both hands, "but I'm in a sour mood, so try and do that again. See what happens."

After a few heaving breaths, crumpled where he was on the unlit floor, the man got to his feet for a second time, he looked at you, scowling, considering something. He braced himself for a second on a stool before he ran full-tilt towards the section of the bar where you were sitting. You were dumbfounded and still struggling to process what precisely was going on around you. The pieces refused to fit together in your mind. Murdoc swung back. There was a sickening crack: an instant moment of collision, and an intoxicated body fell right back onto the floor. But it wasn't getting up this time, not for a while. 

Between you, around you, the air was sticky and quiet with the catharsis of violence and the guilt of catharsis. You’d never been this close to him before. "Oh," you said, before you could stop yourself. "Wow."

For the first time, your eyes met with the pair half-hidden under greasy hair, and details of his face impossible to see from the audience came into view. His eyes, for example, were each a different color. One was a dark brown, deep enough to make his entire iris seem black in the distance, and the other was an almost unnatural shade of red. It didn't seem to be a lack of pigment, his pupils were fully black and the iris appeared to be an almost scarlet color instead of the normal pink iris and red pupil you would expect. Such a strange feature caught your attention for long enough that it was awkward when he broke the stare and finally spoke up. 

"You okay?" He asked, half concerned, half skeptical, attractive beyond logic. 

"Oh! Right! I'm fine. I'm good!" you stuttered, looking away from his face for a moment before realizing there was nowhere else polite to look, "thank you, by the way." Already, you could feel your face burning up. Your heart beating. 

"Ah, don't mention it,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “I like a good row now and again. Really gets the blood pumping. Mind if I pull up a seat?" 

Of course he could pull up a seat, he could have your own seat, if he wanted it. He could have anything. "No problem," you started, but Murdoc had already stolen the seat once occupied by the drunk, now lying unattended on the floor. Mind racing, you tried to figure out what to say. "You're Murdoc Niccals, right? The bassist... Is your set over?" 

He turned to face you, leaning one elbow to support himself against the counter. Like this was really happening, like you were about to have a friendly chat and he hadn't just knocked a man out cold using his guitar.

"Yeah that's right. It's over. For now. Got kicked off for being too... 'vulgar'," the last word full of an impressive amount of vitriol. Enough, you were certain, to kill anyone unlucky enough to catch the full brunt of it. It wasn't the tone that threw you off though. Too vulgar? Shame you'd missed that. Given what they'd already gotten away with, it must have been really bad. For a moment, you allowed your mind to wander. Even when he wasn't half naked or gyrating his hips, (as rare as that was) the movement of his long, sturdy fingers could catch your attention. And that tongue... it'd be impossible to hire a man like Murdoc Niccals and not know what you were in for. 

Shaking yourself out of that dangerously alluring line of thought, you instead focused on indignation. "They can't just kick you off! You guys are incredible!" 

"That's what I said! 'You can't kick us off, we're incredible,' but there was a rather large bodyguard, and I think he had a metal hand, so I just decided it was best to shove off. They'll regret it though. Best band this useless place has ever booked. They'll be sorry." You could have sworn you heard him growl. Even over the noise of the bar. He took a second look at you. "Hey, wait. Haven't I seen you somewhere?"

You almost choked. He recognized you. But you couldn't linger on that, lest you once again appear useless and starstruck. "Well, yeah, actually I've been to just about every show you've done here in Essex." As far as you knew, they hadn't really played anywhere besides Essex. They didn't really seem to need it. You could have sworn it was just some kind of recreation to them. 

"Well," said Murdoc, looking you up and down and taking a moment to really notice you for the first time, "I'm honored to have such a lovely fan." there was a low sleaziness that dropped into his voice. The way he said it sent a chill down your spine. You gripped your drink tighter. 

But even after searching the depths of your mind for an appropriately flirtatious response, the best you could come up with was: "Is, uh, is your bass okay?" And you figured it'd at least buy you a moment to chide yourself for being a coward. 

He laughed. "C'mon love! This is Satan's own bass we're talking about here. El Diablo." He stroked the instrument affectionately, and you watched his hand move over the body. "It's made of tougher stuff than this poor tosser will ever amount to. Doubt he even nicked the paint-job. Good old fashioned hellfire forged quality. Can't buy that in stores. Not honest ones, at least." And he laughed again, a sound you'd never heard before but wanted to capture and replay over and over.

"That's good," you said, deciding to ignore the fact that he'd just claimed he'd gotten his guitar from the devil himself, "it'd be terrible if something happened to it." You paused for a moment and tried to build up your courage, sipping your drink, as if that an extra tiny amount of alcohol in your body would do the job. You didn't get to talk to rock stars often, and while this rock star was still on the brink of hitting it big, he had a special proficiency at getting you going. The way he played his instrument, now strung once again over his shoulder, was overtly sexual, just like everything else he did. Neither the rumors that the drummer was possessed nor the fact that that front man had no eyes were interesting enough tear your attention away from him for long. And now he was here, and he was close, and he was flirting with you. 

"If it broke," you ventured, "I couldn't watch you play it anymore." Your pulse was so quick you could hear it, and you were certain that meant that he could, too. Short of smelling fear, he seemed like the kind of man who could at least read body language. That is, when he cared enough to try. 

"You like watching me perform, eh?" Refusing to be outpaced, the man leaned in close to you, one hand gripping the table's edge for support. So near to you now that you could see the patterns in his eyes. 

There was still a slight tremble in your voice, but he was clearly interested, and so close now that your body wouldn't have let you back out if you tried. You could either respond in kind or let yourself reach out and grab him. "You clearly like performing," you said, meeting his gaze and affecting your tone to match his. "And I certainly wouldn't pass up a chance to prove my appreciation for helping me out just now, if you're willing to put on another show tonight." 

"Is that right?" His voice was low. A whisper, almost, or a mumble, "and how exactly would you go about doing that?" There was a throaty chuckle, and your mind was off racing to terrible, awful places. Places that nobody but Murdoc, with his wicked grin and shameless liberation, could take you to. 

You gulped, heavy, and tried hard to sound confident. "Do you want me to tell you, or do you want me to show you?" 

This time, you were sure it was a growl. "I hope you know what you're getting into, love," said Murdoc, "because I'm not sure I'll be able to go easy on you." 

It was obvious to both of you that you were putty in his hands, and you could only nod and let him pull you off your stool and towards the washrooms. The idea of discretion was so far down on your list of priorities it didn't even occur to you to consider what anyone but Murdoc had to say about you. The bar might as well have been empty for all you cared.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't one of those bathrooms with stalls. That would be far too high-end for a place like this. It was just a normal single occupant washroom with a sign on the door that read 'ladies' and a light hanging from the ceiling which flickered and shook when the door slammed. But you didn't really have the time or the interest to commit to surveying your surroundings. Murdoc had finished hanging El Diablo up on the back of the door and was demanding all of your attention again. One rough hand was already running down your side to rest on your hip. The other had a hold on your chin, tilting it upwards to meet his intense eye contact. You heard a huff of approval, and he moved forward, pausing for another charged second before you gave in and closed the distance yourself, pulling him into an open mouthed kiss. 

In the closeness of his body, you could feel a jolt of surprise which quickly melted into a low noise caught in the back of his throat. A sound he was unable to articulate fully while his tongue was in your mouth, but which still communicated his full approval of your eagerness to get closer acquainted. A mirrored hunger that you’d only recently been able to put a name to. 

Murdoc pulled away only when the air between you was running thin and your breathing ragged, pausing a moment to catch his own breath before moving on to kiss and bite at your neck instead. Sucking a series of discolored marks in the soft skin just beneath your jaw, he had you entirely under his command again, and you couldn't help but start reacting audibly. When his hands moved from your hips to begin feeling your body, even through your layers of clothing, you let out a quiet gasp of, "Jesus Christ,” and started to unbutton your shirt. You were consumed by the longing to feel his strong, talented fingers run along your naked skin. That you weren't already feeling it was almost unforgivable.

Allowing you space to work, he pulled away from your neck for a moment to respond to your profanity in a dark chuckle against your wet skin, “you don't need Jesus for this one, sweetheart. You just need me." 

Murdoc had very quickly taken over this interaction, the sinister curling grin of his lips proving that you were precisely where he wanted you to be. Or, more accurately, precisely how he wanted you to be: desperate. More and more so with each passing second you were so close to him. Suddenly the whole situation seemed terribly unbalanced. Less like you thanking him and more like it was the other way around. 

If you were going to do this, you were going to do it right. 

You pushed lightly against his chest, and he allowed you to disentangle yourself only after a final languid pass of his tongue over your darkened skin. Briefly, you were intoxicated by his reluctance to let go. Even after his chivalry earlier, you’d expected a much more brusque interaction. You didn't think he’d be so ardent about kissing you. Passionate almost, for a bathroom sojourn with a near stranger. 

You wanted to stay, to hold his shoulders and lock lips again, to put your hands under his shirt to feel his chest up close instead of ogling it from the audience. But you also wanted more than that, and you weren't feeling terribly patient. Sinking to your knees, you hooked your fingers into his pants to rub gently at the soft skin at the top of his pelvic bone. Your other hand found the distended bulge of his jeans, and you palmed him through the denim before popping open the buttons one by one. A grunt from above caught your attention when you finally grasped his cock and pulled it free, and you looked up to see Murdoc watching you from under heavy lidded eyes. "Go on then, if that's what you're after." 

Meeting his gaze, you took the tip into your mouth and watched him carefully. There was an almost green tinge to his skin under the bright flickering fluorescent lights. Almost sickly looking if you didn't know better. But he'd often demonstrated a clear vitality on stage, and even the heavy bags under his eyes couldn't convince you he'd be anything but rough and energetic and intense. You wondered if you'd be able to resist touching yourself while you sucked him off. Or even if you should try. From what you’d heard about him from other fans, it wouldn't be surprising if the encounter ended as soon as he was satisfied. 

His stare was too much, and you broke the eye contact to pull the pad of your tongue hard against the underneath of his head, teasing him with the rough pressure for a brief second before moving down to lick at the base of his cock. Murdoc's shallow breathing turned into low groans as you worked, and a stifled moan when you finally took him more fully into your mouth. You sucked for only a moment, and listened to him curse when you withdrew to run your tongue in lazy circles around his head. 

He inhaled sharply, sucking in air between jagged teeth. "Oh, yeah. You're doing great." A hand snaked into your hair, and you could feel his dull nails as he fought not to dig into your scalp. His encouraging words and noises made you want to work harder, coax more out of him. You gave up on your pathetic attempts at resisting your own arousal, and let go of his leg to press a hand against yourself through your pants. His noises only got louder as you pulled him into your mouth again, stoking him harshly with your free hand. It was clear he was approaching his peak; he'd given up on holding back. Both of his hands gripped tightly into your hair. 

A particularly nice roll of your hand between your own legs caused you to moan against him, and you felt his hips move involuntarily, pushing further into your mouth. "Fuck, Stop," he gasped, breathy and almost embarrassed, using his grip on your head to pull you away. 

With a curious glance upwards, you backed away. Murdoc, face flushed, watched you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, catching his breath before speaking again. "On your feet now, love, c'mon. It's about time we got this show on the road." A familiar sinister grin on his face, he took a step back and extended a hand to help you up. The gesture, helpful as it had been, was undermined by the fact that he had your pants halfway down less than thirty seconds later, and he was lifting you onto a sitting position on the sink. You could feel his hands creeping down between your legs, and his face had returned to his favorite spot against your neck. "Spread em," he growled, one strong hand squeezing your thigh and coaxing your legs open, the other running two curious fingers slowly over your vulva. You bit back a moan, embarrassed at how turned on you had become so quickly. 

Murdoc, on the other hand, seemed immensely pleased. Obviously you were enjoying yourself, and it was all because of him. For him, even. "Oh, would you look at that," he smirked, only half teasing, "and to think I had you figured for just another passionless starfucker." His fingers pressed into you and curled upwards, and you whimpered. "Do you always get so hot giving head, or is this a special occasion? I need to know how flattered I should be." He kept moving his hand as he spoke, spreading his fingers and giving shallow experimental thrusts. After one final jagged curling of his long fingers, he withdrew, and you whimpered again, frustrated. 

"Please," you whispered, close and up against the side of his face. In response, he let out a low rumbling noise from the back of his throat, and his nails dug into the flesh of your thigh. 

Unable to deny either of you any longer, Murdoc's thickly calloused hands grabbed onto your ass to pull you closer, sliding you to the very edge of the counter and lining you up perfectly against him. Your eyes met, dark and mismatching, and his mouth twitched into a smirk for a barely perceptible moment before he thrust into you, deep, not stopping until your hips were flush together and your back was arching you closer to his chest. Arms wrapped around his neck, holding on tight, you pressed your lips together. In a rare moment of mercy he indulged you, the kiss turning sharp and messy once he began to move. 

His pace was harsh from the very beginning, but you hadn't expected anything less from him. He pulled out as far as he dared before snapping back into you. Quickly, he picked up a rhythm. The sounds of each forceful meeting of your hips loud enough that you were sure everyone in the building would still know what was going on, even without your whimpering moans and his low grunts interlaced with sporadic high pitched keening. Every time you'd say his name, or choke it out on labored exhales, he'd go harder. Murdoc began to speak against your skin, voice dangerously low, "that's right, that's right, louder. I want everybody to know. Let everybody know. Don't hold back, just like that." 

His movements soon grew quick and shallow, rolling his hips at a brutal, bruising pace into you. The frantic and synchronous movements of your bodies shook the walls and the sink until you were certain it was going to break off its foundation and topple over, leaving you no option to cling to his sweat-slicked body and hope to god he didn't drop you. But you didn't mention it, and you didn't try and relocate, because that would mean stopping, and you were to willing to even think of stopping. Not with his angle so perfect inside you, hitting you over and over again, every thrust providing an insistent fullness that you never wanted to be without.

Murdoc was still murmuring his own brand of filthy encouragement to you between moans and ragged inhalations, but it was almost automatic. He seemed to be concentrating on the backbreaking effort of his chosen speed. You could watch his muscles straining and the sweat beading on his brow. The pressure was building quick inside of you, and you didn't bother warning him before you came. Choosing instead to pull scratched lines in his back and hold on even tighter as he fucked you through it without slowing, the rolling squeeze of your muscles and his name falling breathlessly from your lips pulled him ever deeper and ever closer to the edge. He heaved against you hard, desperately seeking release. "Just a bit more," he gasped, jerking his hips for only a few moments before climax hit him hard, and he let out a loud and harsh moan, hips still moving weakly as he came thickly inside of you. 

He slumped forward, resting his hands once again on the countertop on either side of you, sucking in sweet labored breaths. You let out one last pathetic whimper as he pulled out. The both of you sat like that for awhile, until your breathing evened out and the reality of what you'd really just done started to dawn on you. 

Looking up once again at his face, you saw that Murdoc didn't seem even slightly embarrassed. 

"If you wanna come back to mine," he said, "I wouldn't say no to another go at it."


End file.
